


Post-Mortem

by ghostwriting



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 18:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwriting/pseuds/ghostwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of post-Reichenbach drabbles and ficlets that can be read independently or as a group.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

A pale, motionless body lies on the operating table between John and Molly.  
  
"He cares - " Molly’s voice trembles slightly. " - cared about you, John. You know that.”  
  
John looks away and swallows hard. His fingers stay tightly curled on his jacket and the mobile phone he never stowed away.  
  
_I told him not to._ "He wouldn’t have done it if he did."  
  
After a moment of silence she asks, quietly, “You don’t believe that, do you?”  
  
"No," John gasps, shoulders shaking. "No, I don’t."


	2. Chapter 2

Molly knows how much Sherlock’s death has affected John.  
  
She does not see him very often, but when he does drop by St. Bartholomew’s, he looks like he has not been eating or sleeping well.  
  
What he does not know is that Sherlock feels the same way too.  
  
She knows that John means many things to Sherlock, probably more than he understands. Sherlock does not just get along with people, much less put on a mask of being all right when he is clearly not. John does not see it, but she does.  
  
It is not safe for Sherlock to be moving around the city while he is presumably dead, so Molly visits him every week on varying days to deliver groceries and to check on how he is doing. She knows that he is aware of the risk, but when the days get too long and the night gets too quiet, when he calls out and no one’s there to fetch his phone and make him tea the way John can, she knows that Sherlock wishes that John was with him.  
  
When Molly drops by with the groceries, she updates Sherlock on the people she knows he most wants to hear about. Mrs Hudson, Lestrade… John. Sherlock thinks she does not see it, but when she mentions John, his back is a little straighter and his senses are a little sharper. She knows that he wonders if he misses him. She knows that he wonders if he still has faith in him.  
  
John does.  
  
And when he can no longer bear it, Molly knows that Sherlock travels to the graveyard every 29th of the month just to see John again.  
  
Molly knows just how much Sherlock’s own death has affected him too.


	3. Chapter 3

To John, everything is wrong with this scenario as he walks out of the morgue, back straight and arms held tightly to his sides.

_My best friend._

His leg is hurting and it causes him to stagger as he reaches the end of the corridor, stumbling as a hand is pressed against the wall for balance.

It was no mistake.

_Sherlock._

His pulse was still.

John's shoulder collides into the wall and his back follows shortly. It does not take long before he is sliding down and sitting crumpled on the marble floors of St. Bart's.

He presses the base of his palms into his eyes in an attempt to stop the onslaught of tears that are threatening to fall.

_Is..._

When John opens his eyes again, he pictures Sherlock standing just inches away from him, cigarette in hand. John imagines that it must have been how he looked when he stepped into St. Bart's to verify Irene's dead body months ago.

Other than the fact that he was deep in thought, the rest of his face gives nothing away.

It seemed like such a long time ago.

John looks at his own shaking hands.

... _dead._

He imagines the vast difference if their hands were to be placed side by side.

The ghostly illusion of Sherlock begins to fade, and John is suddenly reminded of Irene's phone and Sherlock's extensive analysis of his sister. It comes together so quickly that John's head begins to reel.

_She left you, Sherlock._

He closes his eyes and tries to take deep breaths.

_That's why you wanted her phone.  
_

In. Out. In. Out.

_You liked each other. Loved each other. At least, that's as close to love as you can possibly get. You played the violin for hours on end for her. Melancholy and haunting tunes.  
_

In.

_"Tell him you're alive. I'll come after you if you don't."_

Out.

_You made me want to protect you. I couldn't let her hurt you._

In.

_I couldn't let you hurt yourself._

Out.

_But now you've left me.  
_

The absurdity of the parallel is starting to make John feel sick in the stomach. He gives up trying to calm his body from protesting in every way possible, simply giving in and toppling sideways. John feels the cool floors against his cheek and it is a momentary distraction from the single teardrop that slides down the side of his face.

_Rude._

John's body begins to shake, quiet sobs echoing through the halls of the hospital.

"You didn't even bother to leave me anything," he whispers to no one in particular.

_"Goodbye John."_

He knows that he is falling apart. The army-like control is gradually crumbling, but he attempts to pull himself together as quickly as he can. John puts a hand to his mouth, stifling the sobs before pushing himself back into an upright position.

The nausea is still there, but his head has stopped spinning.

"John?"

John raises his eyes and notices Molly standing a short distance away, tugging at her fingers, looking as if she does not quite know what to say.

"Are you all right?" she asks, concerned with the fact that he is sitting on the floor with tears streaking down his face.

John puts his hands to his face and hastily wipes the tears away.

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. I just," says John as he clears his throat. "Need a moment."

He notices that Molly looks a lot more composed than he is, making him appear a little hysterical. It surprises him since he had expected her to look more distressed than she was right now. Perhaps the ability to stay composed when faced with the death of a friend or loved one was a benefit acquired through her occupation.

"Are _you_ all right?" he asks in return.

"Me?" Molly's eyes widen before she gives John a smile. Her voice shakes slightly and John interprets that as more of an attempt to keep her voice steady than her usual nervousness. "Yes, I am. Thank you for asking."

She stands and watches him for a bit longer before John clears his throat again and asks, a little uncomfortably, "Is there anything else? Because if that's it, I would like to, um... "

"Oh!" Molly gasps. "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to intrude... I mean..." she clamps her mouth shut, taking a deep breath as she tries to stop herself from rambling. "Actually, I do have something for you."

Molly reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a tiny bottle with two pills in them.

"What's that?" asks John, narrowing his eyes to get a better look at the bottle in her hand.

"They're sleeping pills," says Molly as she moves towards John, handing him the bottle. "I use them when the deaths get to me. I thought you might need them."

John inspects the bottle, frowning slightly.

"It's okay if you don't want to, but they're not drugs or anything," says Molly quietly. "I mean, they _are_ , but not the kind that you're thinking of."

"Oh no, that's not what I meant," John places the pills into his pocket and looks at Molly with what he hopes is a look of appreciation. "Thank you."

The sides of her mouth curve up slightly.

"No one really works here at night unless they're being called in, so it can get pretty chilly without the heaters turned on. Do you need some blankets?"

John is surprised. "How did you know that I was going to stay over?"

"Lucky guess," says Molly with a short laugh, before adding softly, "I know there's no where else I'd rather be right now."

_She's right._

"Won't you get in trouble for this?" John asks.

Molly shrugs and turns away, heading towards the exit.

"Blankets are in the first laboratory if you need them. Get yourself out before eight am."

It does not take long before John is left sitting alone in the corridor again.

* * *

The hospital lights are mostly out by the time John decides to take the pills. It has been over three hours since he tried to get himself to sleep, but to no avail. His mind is constantly disturbed by images of Sherlock, and his fall repeatedly played like a broken record.

It is all becoming a little too much for John to handle, so he turns to Molly's sleeping pills for help. Mrs. Hudson will be looking for him tomorrow morning, and he will need all the energy he has to help her cope, as well as deal with all the lies that will appear in tomorrow's headlines.

Popping two pills into his mouth, John waits for the effects to set in.

* * *

As it approaches eleven, St Bart's is illuminated only by a single set of lights along the corridor that slowly begins to dim as well. John is falling asleep and is tilting sideways. Just as he tips off to sleep, he whispers a single name, and loses consciousness.

Instead of crashing to the ground like he ought to, a body slips in next to him, a shoulder providing comfortable support for his head. A hand grabs hold of John's shoulder and waist, righting him up and tucking John's head under his chin.

John does not stir, merely shifting to get closer to the source of warmth.

The pills that John took were not ordinary sleeping pills but ones that were altered to deliver a higher dosage. This meant that he would get the maximum amount of rest within an eight hour period, which was one of the main reasons why Sherlock had asked Molly to hand it to John. Knowing that he would have trouble sleeping, and the mess that he would have to deal with tomorrow, this was the best Sherlock could do for him without actually showing up in person.

The other was for an entirely selfish reason.

Sherlock looks down at the soft mess of gold hair under his chin and listens to the steady breathing as John sleeps. He takes John's icy hands into his own, interlocking their fingers and bringing them close to his mouth, breathing warm air against them.

The night is a long one, and Sherlock spends the next eight hours gazing at John's calm, sleeping face, occasionally reaching out to fix a few pieces of hair, and generally keeping him warm by pulling him close and wrapping his coat around him. He thinks that John is an idiot for not getting the blankets, but perhaps it is easier to leave St. Bart's in the morning this way.

Sherlock enjoys the silence that stretches through the hall, and takes the night to experience what little time he has left with John before they part for years. It strikes him, then, how much he likes their silent companionship, and something twists uncomfortably in his chest.

Sherlock feels a tug on his neck.

He lowers his gaze to see John's hand curled around his scarf, sleeping soundly. Sherlock gives himself a moment to smile as he covers John's hand with his own.

John was his, and his alone, and his trust was all the driving force he needed.

_I won't let anyone else hurt you..._

Sherlock pulls John's hand away.

_... Even if it means having to hurt you myself._

His hand falls away easily, but Sherlock pulls it back and places it against his chest. He can feel his own heart beating against his fingertips.

"I'm leaving this with you, John. So please," says Sherlock. "Please forgive me."

_This is as close to love as I know it._

The first signs of sunlight begin to stream through the windows and Sherlock prepares to leave. He carefully removes John from his shoulder and sets him on the floor. Sherlock pulls his hand away last, spending some time memorising the features of John's face.

* * *

"Sherlock," whispers Molly, tapping on his shoulder. "You have to go."

Sherlock nods, straightening as he turns around.

"That was a strong pill," he says.

"I know," answers Molly. "Just like you wanted."

* * *

By the time John cracks open his eyes, the hospital is already lit by sunlight. He sits up and checks his watch.

Seven forty-five.

John quickly gets to his feet and begins to head towards the exit. He bumps into Molly on the way out.

"Good morning," she says.

"Hello Molly," greets John. "The, um, pills were really good."

"Glad to hear that," Molly smiles. "I hope you had a good rest."

"Yes, yes of course. Thank you," nods John as he starts to head out the door.

"John?" Molly calls, stopping him in his tracks.

"Yes?"

"You have a little something on your collar," says Molly as she gestures towards his collar.

"Right there, yes," she nods as John reaches for it. "I should be going now. I'll see you later."

She enters the code to the laboratory and disappears through the sliding doors.

John is left staring at the single blue thread sitting on the palm of his hand.

His heart skips a beat, and he tries not to hope.


End file.
